Below Fulton lies the historical spot known as Battle Island, the theatre of some exciting events of the war of 1812. Near this island the river is obstructed by a dam, and here we lowered the boats over with ropes.
The Sybaris went first, and, once over, shot off through a stretch of rapid water.
Simpson, in his efforts to guide her, broke his paddle, and was obliged to jump overboard in order to keep her off the rocks. He came back dripping to help me with the Rena, and told me exactly how to steer when I was cast adrift; but in rapids a little experience is certainly worth more than a good many directions; and once started I found it useless to try to recall a word he had said. The sensation of being carried through a rift is certainly peculiar. With the attention so closely exerted to avoid danger, the boatman has no opportunity to watch the shores, and, as the Irishman expressed it, “see himself go by.” On the contrary, he must fix his gaze forward, and soon has the feeling of standing quite still, while the rocks bob up in front of him and rush at his boat. As I whirled along, a formidable line of boulders rose at my left and swung steadily around to embrace me. Work as I would, they came nearer and nearer, then there was an ominous grating, a rattle of iron (I carried the pots and kettles), and the Rena stuck fast, with the water surging and boiling round her. I expected she would roll over, but she lay wedged just where she struck, and observing there was no change, I pulled off my shoes, and, taking hold of the combing, raised myself out, and sat down astride the deck just back of the cockpit.
“NOT EXACTLY A PADDLE.”
I had not calculated the effect of this change of position on the boat, for her stern dropped instantly, and rearing like an impatient sea-horse she dashed forward, while I clung on as well as I could, feeling like an amateur Neptune, or “a water imp,” as Simpson said. But I was really a little nervous at the time and much relieved to reach still water in safety.
Lower down we landed, and my friend mended his paddle, and then stretched himself out in the sun and read “Lorna Doone” till his clothes were dry. Then we went on—gliding under overhanging trees, passing bare sand-banks crowned with sumac, and catching glimpses of little gullies full of poplars, and fence corners yellow with golden-rod. Some houses and barns strung along the hill-top marked the outskirts of Bundy’s Corners, and later we heard the roar of a fall, down at Minetto.
When we reached this village we found another high dam with a wooden apron below.
We inquired particularly about the channel: Was it deep under the dam? Did boats ever go over?—Questions the people who came down to see the canoes answered readily. It was deep on the other side, and flat-bottom boats had gone over. “Then we can go,” said Simpson, and pushed off with his paddle.
I followed, and we skirted the upper edge of the dam, cautiously working across the river. The water overflowed the obstruction in one thin sheet, and fell spattering among piles of ugly-looking stones, until we reached the extreme east end; here a breach had been made and a heavy stream poured itself through, tumbling into a great white, seething pool some ten feet below. We landed and surveyed the place thoroughly, then removed the sketches, together with a pail of milk and some eggs from the Sybaris, when Simpson entered the boat, worked a few rods back, and rested on his paddle.